Let’s do the announcements first!
Look! It’s the YA issue of Drops of Crimson! Unfortunately, given the life that I’ve been having lately, I haven’t had time to slip into the stories and go ah! yet. Here’s hoping things will simmer down soon.
Next! I’ll be at Convergence in Minneapolis this weekend. On Saturday at 3:30 pm in the Literary Lounge, there will be a
patriotic flag waving reading Broad Universe Rapid Fire Reading. I’ll be reading with Catherine Lundhoff, Lyda Morehouse, and Kathy Sullivan.
The spooky reading from The Winter the Troll Danced with Old Nickwon.
I’ll also spend some time standing in line to get Patrick Rothfuss’ autograph for Mark, and listening to various witty repartee on panels. Mostly, I’ll be hanging out with friends, and gofering for Bryon.
And now…foot update. Bryon didn’t get his stitches out, and he has to continue to wear his boot and carry his crutches. He does have smaller bandages now, and the addition of socks and a Dr. Scholl’s pad on his medical geta are proving to make him more comfortable. The doc even says he can give driving a try. So, we’ll see how he does at the convention. He thinks he’ll use his crutches when he enters crowds, because that will keep people away from his feet.
I have done really well on the writing front for the last few days, which is good, because after all the driving to various medical locations today, I got nothing for tonight.
18 / 53 words. 34% done!
Excerpts? Okay. Here’s a nisse excerpt that I like.
Lars Torkindor enjoyed his peaceful mornings. The air of the barn smelled sweet with hay drifting from the loft above him. His square hands directed the streams of milk from the udder into the wooden buckets. Cream frothed to the top. Beulah lowed gently. “Steady, girl,” he said soothingly.
One by one, he would milk his row of cows. One by one, he would pour the buckets into the large wooden tub, and then he would step outside the barn into the cool crisp air and smoke his pipe. There’d be lunch. Inga would back fresh bread and Helga would give out wedges of thick creamy cheese. That Inga, she was a looker, and she baked potato bread that melted on his tongue. He’d spend his afternoon napping in the loft, followed by the evening milking. He was lucky, living in nisse paradise.
“Lars!” Vegar Brindle’s bellow broke Lars’ daydream like a soap bubble. Beulah kicked the bucket forward. Velvety milk spilled onto the dirt. Lars’ cupid bow of a mouth puckered. He salvaged half the bucket. There was no crying over spilt milk, but there was crying over having his quiet morning interrupted by Vegar. Lars sighed, and looked away from his serene milking into Vegar’s red face.
Vegar was a whippersnapper whose beard only went to his chin. The younger nisse waved his wrench with agitation. Lars figured that Vegar’s temper was because he worked around metal so much, and that had to irritate him, so he was willing to tolerate the boy from time to time.